


Extreme Team Bonding

by bigppNRG



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anyways yeah, Blood and Violence, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Kidnapping, M/M, Oikawa Tooru's Knee Injury, Swearing, Violence, not for kiddos lol, oikawa gets BEAT, read with caution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27048904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigppNRG/pseuds/bigppNRG
Summary: After losing the match with Karasuno, Seijoh doesn’t think their lives get any worse.Surprise, surprise when their bus gets hijacked and the entire team is kidnapped.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 13
Kudos: 111





	Extreme Team Bonding

**Author's Note:**

> do NOT read if you’re sensitive to guns/gunshot wounds, violence, blood OR suffocation since it appears
> 
> this is JUST a one shot inspired by a post i saw on pinterest a while back and decided to drabble on just for fun—i was going to make this a fic but im too fucking lazy to put together an entire plot, moral and everything else that goes into making a fic sksksjsksksk
> 
> i might do more one shots on this idea but like...dont hold ur breath

The bus ride home was quieter than Iwaizumi could ever remember it being.

The mood inside was somber. The air was thick. No one was talking—Iwaizumi figured it was for the same reason as himself. There was nothing to say that could change what had happened. They lost to Karasuno and no amount of cursing the opposing team or pitying themselves or reflecting on all the mistakes they made could change that. Not when this was the last game for him, and the other third years.

He was too tired to talk. He didn’t trust his voice to do so anyways. The others slept, even if it was such a short trip back to school, but Iwaizumi was never able to sleep in vehicles. There was too much noise and jostling and the seats weren’t comfortable enough to allow him to drift off unless he was thoroughly exhausted or if he drank something to help with his motion sickness. He relented on leaning his head on the window and staring outside, not really paying attention as he thought about anything else but their loss. Packing up and getting their asses in the bus was a long trip of holding back tears and trying to keep his sniffles quiet and unnoticed. Even if the others noticed, no one said anything about them. He envied the ones that weren’t currently crying—the ones who hadn’t shed tears in front of their school like children.

Not that crying was bad. He didn’t look at Hanamaki or Kindaichi any differently for crying—he had cried too—but that still didn’t shake the embarrassment clinging to him like a second skin. He wished he could be as emotionally strong and resilient as Oikawa. He wished he could help comfort the rest of the team as well as he did.

But he also just wanted to barge into Oikawa’s room, neither of them saying as word as they shared a blanket and watched comfort movies.

As ok as Oikawa seemed, Iwaizumi knew he was tearing himself apart inside. He knew he was reflecting on everything. All the missed monster serves that cost them points, the dumps that Kageyama forced his way through, the block and receive they flubbed at the end of the match.

In the end they lost to Karasuno.

They never beat Shiratorizawa together like they promised, and they only had so much time left together—time that would be split up even more by studying for exams—before they parted to different colleges. 

Iwaizumi could already feel it all weighing down on his shoulders. He felt heavy and lethargic, on the brink of drifting off.

He startled as a nudge brought him back to, Oikawa whispering his nickname. “Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi hummed. He looked over when no response followed and met Oikawa’s eyes, raising his brows. He was still red from the game, his hair fluffier than what he usually allowed in public. There was a small pout on his lips.

“I don’t think we’re going the right way,” he finally said, voice soft for the two of them only. 

It took Iwaizumi a second to register what he did and when he did, he rolled his eyes. “Not right now, Crappykawa—“

“Wait Iwa-chan listen—“

“There are many reasons we may be taking a different path to school,” he cut him off. Iwaizumi rubbed at his eyes as he spoke. “Reasons I don’t feel like naming right now so if you could just take the hint—“

“Ok, ok,” Oikawa said, hands raised to his chest defensively. “Geez. Okay… You’re right. Maybe I’m just paranoid.” Iwaizumi looked at him, one brow raised. “I’m serious, Iwa-chan! I have a lot of thoughts running through my head, and my thoughts are very confusing—not that your cave-man brain would understand that concept though—“ Iwaizumi pinched his side. “Ow! Iwa-chan that hurts!”

“And your voice is giving me a headache,” he retorted.

“Mean! You’re so mean!”

“Are we bullying Oikawa?” Hanamaki’s head appeared between theirs from behind, startling the shit out of Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumijumped back, head bumping against the glass of the window as Oikawa shrieked and jerked away from the sudden head of pink hair. His arms flailed and Iwaizumi barely managed to grab onto his wrist before he fell out of his seat and complained about his ass being “damaged goods” and sore for the remainder of the ride.

Hanamaki just snickered at their pain. “My bad. Did I interrupt?~”

“Makki I almost fell out of my seat! I’m already sore enough, I don’t need a bruised butt!”

Hanamaki asked “What butt?” at the same time Iwaizumi said, “Your bruised ego wouldn’t allow you to feel it.”

Oikawa gasped, offended. “I’m— I’m not even gonna respond—!”

“But you did, so step one failed,” Matsukawa chimed in, poking his head in under Hanamaki’s. “What’s step two?”

“Step two is he takes the team out to dinner like he fucking promised,” Hanamaki said.

“Oh yeah. I ordered—“

Before Matsukawa can rant off his order again, Iwaizumi pressed his palm to both men’s faces, effectively shutting them up. “Bye,” he said, pushing them back into their seats. “Sit. Stay. Good boys.” He plopped back down into his own seat with a huff, ignoring the comments of ‘Daddy Iwa’ and ‘kinky’ from behind him.

He leaned his head back against his window and shut his eyes. Peace and quiet. This was nice. He just wanted to relax and—

“Iwa-chan?”

“Ugh,” he groaned, long and irritated. “What?”

“Do you want to come over today?” He asked. Iwaizumi turned to face him, both brows raised. It was...weird to be asked over. Usually Oikawa dragged him over or demanded he come, and other times Iwaizumi just barged in on his own volition through the unlocked window to Oikawa’s room. Did that lead into some weird moments between the two of them? 

No, actually. Changing in front of each other wasn’t weird, he’d never walked in Oikawa jerking it—thank fuck—and he usually told him if he had a girl over.

Iwaizumi’s silence was enough for Oikawa to notice that  _ yes _ , asking him over politely and maturely like he had never done before  _ was _ weird, and started fidgeting. “My parents should be out and well, I don’t want to be home alone—“

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi said, feeling oddly warm. “I’ll come.”

Oikawa grinned.

“Why bother asking?” Matsukawa pried in once again, voicing Iwaizumi’s thoughts as well, but the latter just slumped against his seat with a groan.

“Dude, mans has a point Iwa,” Hanamaki said. He waved his hand out. “You basically live at Oikawa’s house at this point. Why the sudden formalities?”

Oikawa scoffed. “That’s a big word for you Makki—“

Hanamaki ignored him. “Oh, wait. Is this a date?”

“Maybe it’s a booty call?” Matsukawa said.

Iwaizumi felt warmth creep up his cheeks, shocked into silence, while Oikawa spluttered like a moron. “I—no! Mattsun crude! I have more class than asking Iwa-chan out on a  _ bus _ while we’re both gross and sweaty!”

“Eh,” Makki said. He shrugged. Mattsun gave a so-so gesture.

“I- go sit in your seats!” Oikawa squawked. Iwaizumi watched him slump over into the aisle, elbow propped up on the arm rest and chin in his palm as he sulked. Lips pursed in a pout. Red still on his cheeks.

Iwaizumi looked at Matsukawa and Hanamaki, both watching him with lazy grins. He rolled his eyes and looked out the window again. He tried to not think about how Oikawa didn’t say no to a date—just that he’d have more class when he did.

_ If _ he did, he corrected mentally.

Iwaizumi didn’t want to acknowledge the way his heart skipped a beat at the thought. Or how much he wanted it to be something more than just two friends hanging out after their hopes and dreams since age fourteen were crushed into dust.

He also wouldn’t admit to wondering what would happen once they got to Oikawa’s house. Would they just share a blanket and watch movies?

Would they feel too exhausted to do anything but pull out the futons and go to bed?

_ Oikawa called you over to his house. You spent an entire week at his home for your parents’s sixteenth anniversary. It’s nothing new, idiot, calm down. _

The warmth to his cheeks cooled by the time he felt Oikawa shift. He looked over to see him standing out of his seat whilst the bus was still moving.

Idiot. Did he want to fall over and hurt himself walking down the aisle of a moving bus? Iwaizumi grabbed his wrist before he could get far. “Sit down before you fall down.”

“I just want to ask where we’re going,” Oikawa said, slipping his hand free before Iwaizumi could scold him for going on about his “paranoia” again. He thought they dropped it. Apparently not. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Iwaizumi huffed and watched him walk up to the front of the bus. He couldn’t see what Oikawa was saying, but he saw him turning up the charm and asking the driver questions.

“What’s he doing?” Hanamaki asked, head poked once again.

Iwaizumi looked at him and shrugged. “Asking for directions.”

“What? Why?”

“He seems to think we’re not going to school.”

Iwaizumi watched as Matsukawa leaned in, and rested his chin on top of Hanamaki’s head. The pink hairs flew as he spoke, deep and tired. “What do you think?”

“Honestly? I think we’re just taking a detour. Roads might be closed or we’re just avoiding the post-game traffic,” Iwaizumi shrugged as he met Matsukawa’s eyes. “He did say he has a lot on his—“

He words were cut off as he heard a thump, Oikawa cry out in pain, and a thud. Iwaizumi was on his feet in a second, noticing that Oikawa was crumpled on the floor of the bus, blood welling up just above his brow. The bus driver was still in his seat, driving faster now, and the only other adult in the bus was standing over him, shoulders spread.

“Oikawa!” He called out, rousing interest from the other teammates. He was stomping down the aisle of the bus to help Oikawa sit up and take him off the assistant’s hands when he stopped, breath stolen from him.

The assistant had a gun aimed at him.

The assistant—had a gun.

On him.

What. The. Fuck.

It was settled between his eyes. Iwaizumi didn’t remember him reaching for it—he must have already had it in his hands. How he didn’t first see the fucking  _ gun  _ was beyond him.

His body trembled, feeling his fight or flight instincts kick into gear.

They were on a bus, with nowhere to run, and still he wasn’t about to leave Oikawa passed out on the ground, his bruised head bleeding and all.

“I suggest,” the man said slowly. “That you take a seat.”

Iwaizumi raised his hands, showing he wasn’t about to do anything more stupid than what he already was. He swallowed the fear down and nudged his head to his best friend. “Ok. Just…let me take him with me,” he said. “We’ll sit.”

“I said take a  _ seat _ , Hajime-kun,” the man snapped.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, from anger, disgust, or fear he couldn’t tell. He wanted to kick the man’s ass for hurting Oikawa hard enough to bleed. The feelings in his fingertips and his toes were already starting to disappear, but the heavy jackhammering behind his ribs reminded him of the danger he was in.

Like his eyes weren’t doing that already.

Iwaizumi really didn’t like the thought of leaving Oikawa in the state he was on a dirty bus floor. It couldn’t be comfortable for his neck, definitely not for his knee. His head was still bleeding, Iwaizumi could already imagine how badly it’d hurt once he woke, if he was pistol-whipped like Iwaizumi was led to believe. He opened his mouth to retort some more when a second voice interrupted him.

“How do we know that’s a real gun?” Hanamaki scoffed, standing up in his seat. “There’re a lot of capable athletes on this bus. Any of us could kick your ass and call the cops—“

A gunshot rang out.

Iwaizumi covered his ears and ducked down, feeling his breath hitch.

Someone screamed in agony.

Someone screamed in fear.

Someone screamed Hanamaki’s name.

Iwaizumi looked behind him, and through the ringing in his ears he heard Hanamaki screaming. The seats obscured his view but he could hear him loud and clear, screaming about his arm. Matsukawa’s voice was the only other one audible through the screaming, shouting at him to calm down, that he’d be okay, that they had to put pressure on it.

He felt his stomach churn as he listened. He felt nauseous, like he would throw up whatever light snacks he’d had to keep going him through matches without throwing up.  _ Fuck.  _ He looked back at Oikawa, still unconscious and bleeding steadily. Heads tended to bleed a lot for even the smallest of things. A pool of blood had already collected by his cheek, half his face coated in it. He looked like something from a horror movie.

_ Fuck.  _ This was  _ real.  _ This man was serious about whatever he was doing. He wasn’t afraid to shoot them—he wasn’t afraid to kill them.

_ Fuck _ , Hanamaki could be bleeding out back there and the man didn’t care at all.

How did they end up in this mess. How the  _ fuck  _ did any of this happen, and why now. Why to them. All they were supposed to be worrying about was exams, losing a volleyball game, how to get better for next year. No one was supposed to be scared for their life.

The man raised his hand and shot a bullet into the roof of the bus. “Listen up! You—““ He pointed his gun at the two third years again—Hanamaki still crying out in agony. “Shut him the fuck up before I put so many bullets in him you won’t even recognize him.” Matsukawa quickly started hushing Hanamaki, until the latter was only sniffling and biting hard on his shirt. He was sickly pale with a layer of sweat on top of his skin, mixing with thick tears. There was blood already smeared across his cheek and seeped deeply into his shirt. Matsukawa looked no cleaner. There was blood in his hair, smeared across his cheek, his shirt.

“You—“ he pointed at Iwaizumi next, then pointed the gun at Oikawa. “Sit down before I shoot the pretty boy you’re so worried about.” Iwaizumi quickly threw himself into a seat. “Anyone moves, anyone talks, anyone tries  _ anything  _ and I shoot them. And as for calling the cops? We’ll  _ all _ be dead before they ever find us.”

He stared at everyone, long and hard, before stepping over Oikawa’s body and taking a seat.

The rest of the bus ride fell into silence again.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Iwaizumi doesn’t remember what happened after Hanamaki got shot. Everything blurred together as he sat on the bus, staring at Oikawa, and trying to control his breathing.

A couple of times he felt so choked up he could barely breathe, but fear for Oikawa, for Hanamaki, for the rest of the teammates on the bus, kept him from making too much noise. He held his breath and closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down.

At some point they were ushered off the bus by a group, and blindfolded. Iwaizumi was completely lost after that point. He tried calling out for his team, but someone lashed at him for speaking, and threatened them all to keep quiet. They did.

Hanamaki was forced to keep quiet as his arm was cut into. He was forced to keep quiet as the bullet was removed. And, he was forced to keep quiet as they stitched his arm up like nothing ever happened.

Hajime was restless as he listened, feeling the person next to him fidget and squirm. Hanamaki made no noise—deadly silent.

He can’t remember when they got blindfolded, or for how long they were blindfolded.

But when they were yanked off, he hissed as the lights burned at his eyes.

Blinking away the pain, Iwaizumi quickly took count of everyone. 

They were all on their knees, arms bound with ropes behind them, and set into a line. Kindaichi was to his left, looking fine but exhausted and terrified. There were tears running down his cheeks, and he shook with the will to keep himself from sobbing. To his left was Kunimi—staring at the floor, lips trembling.

On the other side of Iwaizumi was Matsukawa. He was fidgeting and squirming, looking tired and messy with Hanamaki’s blood smeared on his clothes and face, but otherwise fine. 

Hanamaki was another story completely. He was pale and sweaty, hair sticking out in every direction, dried old blood acting like hair gel that kept his short, once-pink hair sticking up in every direction. There were tears still running down his cheeks, and he sniffed every so often, but otherwise he didn’t look like he was there mentally. His entire body was hunched forwards. His forehead nearly touched the ground. He looked exhausted and worn down, barely sitting himself up.

Iwaizumi’s mouth curved, and he looked at the second years. Kyoutani was glaring at the men walking behind them and towards the door, but he didn’t do or say anything, and for that Iwaizumi was thankful. He didn’t want the young hothead getting hurt, or getting someone else hurt.

Yahaba and Watari were silent, their eyes darting around, both looking like they had cried recently. Their bodies shook, but they kept it relatively together.

He finally saw Oikawa at the end of the line. He was alive and awake, sitting tall but leaning to the side. His face was mostly clean now, the blood from earlier wiped off onto his shoulder—white shirt stained red—and Iwaizumi could see his jaw clenching and unclenching, a telltale sign to him thinking and analyzing everything he was given. Not that different from the court.

Most men exited the room, save for two who lingered by the door, whispering amongst each other. Iwaizumi couldn’t understand them.

“What if we start with this pretty little thing?”

Time seemed to slow as the two men focused in on Kunimi—wide eyed and pale. He looked like a frightened deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck, and Iwaizumi could see him trembling where he sat. A sheen of sweat easily took over the surface of his skin. All the color was sucked out of his skin, leaving his complexion ghostly in comparison to the dark hair hiding his fearful eyes.

Iwaizumi grit his teeth, leaning forward and struggling with the ropes straining at his wrists. He wanted to jump out and shield Kunimi from the men. He wanted to push him away, into the arms of the third years, and beat the shit out of the men. He wanted to  _ do  _ something, but he wasn’t sure he could without the men taking control of the situation again and making things worse. They could hurt Kunimi further, they could kill him so the others knew they were ready to kill, too, not just maim. The gun strapped in the holster around the man’s hip reaffirmed that. He could still hear the crack of it against Oikawa’s skull when they pistol-whipped him on the bus, he could hear the gunshot ringing out from when they shot at Hanamaki and grazed his cheek. They could also hurt Kunimi far worse than pain or death. 

Iwaizumi got rid of the thought. He refused to think about it.

He wouldn’t allow that to happen. No one was going to die. Not if he could help it.

One man crouched down, cupping his cheek, turning his head this way and that. “So pretty, and fragile,” he sighed, breath pushing away the dark bangs hanging in front of his eyes. Kunimi’s eyes squeezed shut, his lips trembled. “You look so good, scared.”

Bile tickled at the back of Iwaizumi’s throat. Watching made him uncomfortable, but looking away made him worry all the more. Although watching was awful, he felt better knowing he could see what they did to Kunimi. He would know that they weren’t killing him. He would know where he was hurt. He would know how to help, if he got the chance. And then he wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t let go of the timid, usually reserved underclassman now fully shaking.

Seeing the fear on Kunimi’s face was an entirely different kind of wrong. It wasn’t a secret that Kindachi wasn’t expressive—his emotions could easily blend together if one wasn’t paying attention well enough, or didn’t have Oikawa as a best friend growing up. He’d seen Kunimi tired, and he’d seen him annoyed. There were little tells—only differentiated by the quirk of his brow at times—that separated the two emotions. Iwaizumi had learned to read all the hidden emotions hidden behind Kunimi’s face over the course of a few years, ever since they first met at Kitagawa Daichi. 

Now, he could clearly see Kunimi’s fear.

It was wrong. It was wrong to make Kumimi—a boy no older than sixteen, with a bright future ahead of him—fear for his life and make his face twist into a sickening grimace.

It was wrong to make Kunimi bite his lip until it was bleeding, trembling in a crazy man’s grip, whilst being belittled and objectified.

It was wrong to make the rest of the team watch. It was wrong to make Kindaichi openly cry in fear for himself and his best friend.

“Are we meant to watch you bully a minor like some entitled brat on the playground?” Oikawa asked, cold and full of spite.

Everything went silent. The two men cooing over Kunimi turned to look at Oikawa, expressions showing indignance and irritation. They shared a look. Then the one assaulting Kunimi took a step back and looked Oikawa up and down, eyelids narrowed and lips tugged into a smirk. The entire display was enough to make Iwaizumi’s blood boil. Oikawa didn’t even flinch.

“A minor?” The man repeated, voice lilting with amusement.

A second passed where no one said anything. Oikawa hummed. “Do you need me to define minor for you?” He asked. The air seemed to come alive with anxiety and fear and awe. He continued. “It’s a child under the age of eighteen—“

“S’nothing but a number,” the man snarled at him, effectively cutting him off. The heavy thuds of his boots against the tiled floor echoes in Iwaizumi’s ears as he stomped over to Oikawa. “I remember you,” he sniffed, calming down suddenly. “My colleague had to knock you out since you were barking orders like some bitch. S’that mouth of yours going to cause us more trouble now?”

There was no response. Neither Oikawa nor the man said anything, and Iwaizumi felt like he was watching with bated breath.

The man gave in first, grabbing a handful of Oikawa’s hair and forcefully tilting his head back so they were eye-to-eye, even with Oikawa on his knees, hands tied behind his back. His nose scrunched, but he otherwise didn’t show any signs of discomfort. Not even with his bad knee being pushed against his body weight and the floor, and his hair being pulled out of his scalp, or the burns the rope was no doubt leaving on his wrists.

“I said,  _ is that mouth of yours going to cause us trouble?”  _ The man spat.

Oikawa spat back. He collected all his saliva and spat it right back into the man’s face, grinning after. “You have no idea.”

“You little bitch!”

“No!”

“Senpai!”

“Oikawa!”

“Stop! Please!”

“Oikawa!”

“Tooru!”

It all happened so fast.

The man dragged Oikawa by the hair right into his knee—not once, not twice, but three times as everyone around them screamed and shouted.

And then he stopped, just holding Oikawa’s head away from his knee for all to see.

Kindaichi sobbed.

Hanamaki swore.

Yahaba gasped.

Iwaizumi pulled at his ropes.

Oikawa was a mess. His face was a bloodbath, with his nose bending the wrong way, and running. A steady stream of blood made way down past his cut open lips, some pouring into his mouth and the rest collecting at his chin with spit and tears. It was an awful sight. Iwaizumi couldn’t describe it as anything other than wrong, wrong,  _ wrong. _

It didn’t fit the Oikawa that the world saw on tv and in games—charming and majestic in his uniform, even after sweating for somewhere around an hour. 

It didn’t fit the Oikawa that Iwaizumi knew him as—a sci-fi and volleyball geek that camped out in hoodies and ugly booty shorts at home when no one was around. 

His heart constricted painfully. Oikawa wasn’t fragile by any means, but he wasn’t made to withhold a beating, either. He’d lived through bloody noses and volleyballs spiked to the face—he dealt with his knee and cramps and pulled muscles and soreness after rigorous games and long days of practice. His skin was tough, but that only went so deep.

“Tooru…” Iwaizumi whispered, watching as Oikawa’s eyelids twitched. 

He wasn’t sure if he was still clinging on to consciousness, or if he had slipped away. His eyes were open just a sliver due to the tugging at his scalp. The man holding on was the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the ground.

He wasn’t given a breather as he was dragged by his hair a little ways ahead of the line the team made. They all listened as Oikawa whimpered and whined painfully the entire way, his legs kicked out uselessly, like he was trying to get up and walk on his own but to no avail. The man didn’t allow him. Oikawa bucked hips bucked into the air. He wiggled his body like a worm. He struggled in any way to fight back.

The man wiped the spit off of his face.

Then rubbed his nose.

Sniffed once more.

“Ah—I apologize. I let my temper get the better of me,” he said, looking down the line at all of them. “It’s something I’m working on.” The eye contact was brief, but Iwaizumi made sure to push all the rage and hatred into his expression nonetheless. “Regardless. How about I make an example of you, Oikawa Tooru?” He yanked his head back, looking down at his face. “Hm?”

Oikawa gasped for breath, but the sharp intake only made him cough, gagging on the blood and saliva he couldn’t swallow down.

“Ah ah,” the man cooed, grabbing his throat and squeezing. He watched as panic filled Oikawa’s eyes and he lamely kicked his legs once more. “You’re not getting out of this now. Not when you so kindly begged for a beating. Now cooperate. I might show some mercy.”

Oikawa was nothing if not stubborn. He thrashed harder against him, slurring his words together unintelligibly.

With a heavy sigh, the man squeezed harder. Until Oikawa went limp in his arms. Then, he let go, humming when the latter sucked in a giant breath of air and choked on his own desperation. When he stopped, just breathing, the man squeezed again. Oikawa thrashed in his arms.

This kept going. On, and on, he watched as Oikawa had the air kept away from him until he was on the brink of passing out just to be given the smallest bit of respite—not even enough to collect all the air back in his lungs before the next round. 

Each time he squeezed, Iwaizumi counted the seconds until he let go.

Each time, he held his breath longer.

Each time, Iwaizumi felt his own breathing cease as he waited anxiously.

“Stop.”

The man looked straight at him and Iwaizumi startled, until realizing he was the one who spoke. He swallowed. He didn’t recognize his own voice—small and terrified.

He continued. “Stop.”

The man dropped Oikawa, and Iwaizumi watched him crumple, gagging and coughing as he wheezed for breath. He was still bleeding, his nose didn’t show signs of stopping any time soon. Iwaizumi could say with certainty that it was broken. He rolled onto his side, forehead pressed into the tile. Drool and blood leaked off of him, his heavy pants the only audible things.

Watching him felt like a nightmare. None of them moved, the threat of a gun hanging over their heads heavily. Last time they tried fighting back, Hanamaki was shot. It was enough to instill fear into them all. All except for Oikawa, who was passed out at the time, who was now gasping blood into the tiles.

The man smirked. “Iwaizumi Hajime.” Iwaizumi recoiled. The men definitely knew who they all were—this was the second time they were using his name confidently. “Enough strength to match Ushijima Wakatoshi, but none of the skill or the height.”

They were...talking about volleyball? Iwaizumi frowned.  _ Now?  _ He opened his mouth to retort.

“Hey—“

“You want me to stop, Hajime?” The man cut Oikawa off, but Iwaizumi’s attention flitted over to him nonetheless. His voice sounded wrecked and small. Iwaizumi’s attention was dragged back when the man shouted. “Answer me!”

Iwaizumi grit his teeth. “Yes.”

“Then beg.”

“Hajime no—“

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi snapped. “Shut it. I’m not letting them hurt you anymore—“

He should have known better than to think Oikawa was bigger than his pride—that Oikawa wouldn’t be a stubborn prick even in a situation like this. Oikawa was never one to roll over and accept defeat. He fought and gave it his all, never taking the easy way out. Never giving up. Never giving it anything but his best, even if it stripped everything away from him. Volleyball and his knee were good examples.

Iwaizumi admired his ambition. He admired how resilient he was, and how nothing dragged him down. But his ambition led to Oikawa’s stubbornness. It was the thing that made him push, until nothing was left. It was the thing that allowed perfectionism to front, tearing at every insecurity he had. He hated that he threw whatever self-care he had out the window just to achieve whatever victory his thoughts conjured up in the moment, damning any and all self-preservation he had. He didn’t celebrate, either. He picked at the things he lacked in and created a new goal to achieve, never looking back and what he’d already accomplished.

Why he thought he needed to preserve Iwaizumi’s dignity when he already took a beating for Kunimi’s comfort was beyond Iwaizumi’s comprehension.

But before Iwaizumi could even finish his sentence, Oikawa spit a ball of blood and saliva and mucus onto the man’s shoe, the sound enough to cut off Iwaizumi’s sentence.

And then he was filling the silence full of fear and rage with his voice. “Oops.”

The man kicked him in the ribs. Iwaizumi’s shout mixed with Oikawa’s cry. He fell onto his side, wheezing for air to make it into his lungs. His arms still tied behind him, he tried rolling over and getting up but the man just kicked him down again with all his might. “Piece of shit High School pretty boy,” he spit, kicking him again. “I lost big money because your pathetic ass couldn’t lead your own team to victory against  _ amateurs, _ ” he snarled, the shouting of the team falling on his deaf ears. “Stop acting tough now.”

The other man pushed himself up and joined his colleague’s side. “He seems to like spitting. Maybe we should grab a hammer and make him swallow his teeth.”

“Yeah?” He laughed as he kicked Oikawa hard in the side. “I’ll make him swallow this dick,” the other said. This time when he kicked Oikawa down, the latter didn’t try getting up. “Hurts, doesn’t it? I played soccer in my youth. Now that was a real sport. We didn’t cry like little bitches when we lost, but then again we never lost in the first place!” He kicked him again, and Iwaizumi struggled against his ropes binding him.

It felt slippery. He probably sweated and loosened the rope enough from his struggling that he could just slip the rope down his hands and just—and— _ fuck _ —do  _ something.  _ He wasn’t going to stand by and watch a former soccer player continuously kick Oikawa in the ribs with all his might. He could bruise, or worse, break a rib, and he didn’t trust Oikawa to not somehow make it worse or pierce a lung with his stupid stunts.

_ Stupid.  _ They were so stupid. Stupidkawa. He was so stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m going to make what’s left of your life a living hell, pretty boy,” he said, tapping at his head with a foot. “I’m going to destroy that pride of yours.” There was no answer. He kicked him in the ribs again. “Hey. Are you listening to me?”

Iwaizumi tuned out their conversation and tugged, but his wrists didn’t come free. He growled and tugged again, harder. The growl was too low for the men to catch, but Matsukawa turned to him and watched as he yanked his arms.

“What the hell are you doing?” He hissed, leaning over and bumping their shoulders. Iwaizumi turned away. “Stop. Iwaizumi, stop!”

His wrist popped out and Iwaizumi finally freed his hands, biting his lip to mute a scream. He quickly scoped his surroundings—Oikawa on the ground with the man still abusing him. The other one with the gun was standing off to the side and watching, standing closer to Iwaizumi than the others. On either side of Iwaizumi were Kindaichi and Matsukawa, with the former only there physically. Kindaichi was sobbing quietly, face turned away and into his own shoulder and he tried not to see or be seen. Iwaizumi didn’t allow himself to think about comforting before he turned to Matsukawa and leaned in.

“Can you get a leg out from under you?” He asked.

“Iwaizumi…” Matsukawa whispered, voice small. “Your wrist…”

Iwaizumi looked at him and took him in completely. The wet gleam in his eyes and the puffiness to them, tired rings of purple and blue under them. His mouth was parted as he looked at Iwaizumi’s hands, horrified. Iwaizumi remembered that he was the one to deal with Hanamaki after he was shot, that he was also watching Oikawa get abused, and now he was seeing Iwaizumi purposely injure himself. He watched all his friends get hurt. Iwaizumi felt bad for the latter, but he wasn’t just going to sit there any longer.

“It’s fine, it’s just my left hand,” he said, trying to sound as reassuring as he could be. “Trust me. I won’t let anyone else get hurt just...get a leg out.”

Slowly, but surely, Matsukawa slumped off to the side and got his legs out from under him. He stretched them out in front.

“Good,” Iwaizumi said. “Now, catch.”

“What—Iwaizumi what—!”

With that, he got up and tackled the man with the gun. The surprise of it had Iwaizumi easily taking him down and slamming his good hand into his face relentlessly, feeling a sickening crunch under his fist.

The man’s nose? Or his knuckles?

He didn’t know. He didn’t care to know at the moment. Nothing was on his mind as he continued his onslaught, silent and livid. Around him he could hear shouting and screaming and crying. The background noises felt like chaos that he could just turn on mute and focus on the man under him.

He got in a lot of punches. A lot of good punches before he felt arms wrap around his middle and drag him off.

He angled his elbow, connecting with something, and he kicked at the other assaulter running at him, kicking the air out from his lungs. When he ran at him again, Iwaizumi tried kicking but his leg was caught this time. The other was kicked out from under him and he fell head first onto the tiles.

He blacked out almost immediately.


End file.
